


Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

by DonnesCafe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Development, Family, Family Secrets, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Multi, Parents and Children, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-04-28 17:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14454330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: Sherlock is unhappy, and he is concerned that he is making his friends unhappy as well. Time for a change. A post-S4 fix-it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although I'm sympathetic to JohnLock and have written it gladly, this isn't that. It's a different sort of fix-it in which I take seriously some of the implications of the John-character that I see portrayed in S-4. I felt the need to extricate Sherlock from the morass that S-4 had sunk him in for my own peace of mind. This is just one possible version of how that might work itself out.

He who is tired of London is tired of life. Sherlock once knew who said that, but he had deleted it. Sherlock was tired of London, the city he once found endlessly fascinating, the city he knew like the back of his hand, like the pinprick scar maps up and down the insides of his arms. All the time he had been “dead”… away, but John always insisted on referring to it as the time he was dead… London was his talisman, his beacon, his promised reward. That London was a fantasy, a chimera constructed of memories and loneliness and pain. So much pain. 

Actual London was a morass of damaged relationships, regret, and sorrow. At the heart of it was a barely recognizable flat and a distant John Watson. 

John’s anger always resurfaced, although he tried to be pleasant. He tried to be a good doctor, a good father, a good friend. Sherlock saw how hard he tried. John helped Sherlock clean up the bombed out chaos of the Baker Street flat. He apologized, ten times over, for beating Sherlock half to death. He apologized for cutting Sherlock off after Mary’s death. He acknowledged that her death had not been Sherlock’s fault except, perhaps, peripherally. He apologized for the letter he hadn’t even had the courage to give Sherlock himself, for the stinging words, the cutting phrases. He had been full of grief, he explained. He was sorry. So very sorry. He came to the flat with takeaway, but he never stayed long. Rosie needed him. Sherlock suggested that he bring Rosie. He did, sometimes. Sherlock tentatively, so tentatively, asked whether John and Rosie might move into Baker Street. When he talked about child-proofing the cabinets, hiding the skull, moving the chemicals, giving them the main floor, John’s lips went thin and his eyes took on a far-away look. 

Sherlock, too good a detective for his own peace of mind, read the signs. John was deeply angry. At Sherlock? At life? At fate, Rosie, Mary, Eurus, himself? In the face of that deep anger, almost always successfully hidden, Sherlock’s voice would trail off. An invitation to view a body, an invitation to Angelo’s, an invitation to a life together; in the face of John’s anger, all seemed equally unlikely to find a favorable reception. 

Molly seemed angry, too. Distant. She had a right to be, of course, after the debacle with Eurus. He explained, at length and over an exceedingly expensive dinner underwritten by Mycroft at Le Gavroche (her choice). 

“Of course I forgive you,” she said. “There was nothing else you could have done. Of course I forgive you.” 

“But you’re still angry,” he said, looking down at the half-eaten _râble de lapin_ on his plate. He thought about Bluebell and almost smiled. Almost. So many years ago, so much water under so many bridges. He put down his fork and looked up. He forced himself not to deduce. Just ask. 

“Are you still angry with me?” 

She sipped some of the Romanée-Conti. She looked nice, thought Sherlock. Hair up. Her dark blue dress didn’t try too hard, but it suited her figure and the restaurant. The wine was delicious, Sherlock admitted, even though Mycroft had chosen it. And paid for it, thank God. He didn’t remember the last time he had a paying case. Chaos and drug use and family drama and bombs had taken up an inordinate amount of his time lately. 

“I’m angry, Sherlock,” she said, putting the crystal glass down carefully, “yes. Well-spotted. Don’t interrupt me. Now that you’ve asked, I’m going to say it.” She took a deep breath and leaned forward, lowering her voice so that the couple at the table next to them couldn’t possibly hear. 

“Not about the… you know… love thing. No. I’m angry because you came really close to killing yourself. Again. _Really_ close, Sherlock.” 

“It was for a case,” he said. 

“Oh, _fucking Christ_ ,” Molly hissed, her voice rising. The woman at the next table looked down her nose at them. Molly stared at her fiercely until she pointed her nose back at her côte de veau. “Bitch,” Molly muttered. 

“It was for John Watson, and you know it. It’s always been for John. But it’s… hard to watch you care so little about yourself. We all love you, but it’s hard work, Sherlock, watching you…. You’re not happy. You’re not really working. I’m afraid for you. We all are. So, yes, I’m angry. It just seems such a waste.” Suddenly a tear trickled down her cheek. 

“Hell,” she said, dashing it away and scraping back her chair. She stood up. 

“Sorry. Thanks for dinner. It was lovely, and…” She shook her head, not looking him in the eye. “You have desert. I’ll get a cab.” 

He reached a hand toward her. This wasn’t going as planned. 

“Molly, don’t be…,” Sad, he started to say. I’m not worth it, he started to say. But even he knew that would make it worse. Desert. Molly liked cake. 

“Stay. They have millefeuille with raspberries.” Or so Mycroft had said. 

She put a hand to her mouth and smothered something between a laugh and a sob. She turned and walked away. She didn’t look back. 

Sherlock ordered another bottle of the Romanée-Conti and the pear tart. He worked his way methodically through both and tried to think. The restaurant gradually emptied out until he sat in the dining room alone. He could hear the waiters and the dishwashers talking quietly in the back. No-one disturbed him. It was that sort of place, and Mycroft was a regular. 

The last glass of wine. He ran his index finger around the rim of the exquisite crystal glass until it rang faintly. His London didn’t exist anymore. Not really. His John didn’t exist anymore, if he ever had. Molly was right. He wasn’t happy. He wasn’t working. 221b didn’t feel like home anymore. 

He didn’t want to go home to the flat that no longer felt like a home, so he left the restaurant and started walking. He strolled through Grosvenor Square, down to Piccadilly, through the Green Park, and past Buckingham Palace. He remembered visiting the horses at the Royal Mews when he was small. Huge, white, patient beasts they had been. He supposed they still were, so he turned that way. You couldn't see into the stables from the street, of course, but he liked to imagine the big animals drowsing in their luxurious stalls. It was very late by now, but walking felt good. His head was beginning to clear from the fog of expensive wine and too much food. He circled through Westminster and stood looking at Big Ben for a long time. He wondered if his stash of disguises, soup, and sterno was still behind the clock-face. He could go and see, camp out there for a few days. But no. He realized now what he had been doing in his perambulations, so there was no need to delay. He was saying goodbye to London. 

Now that he admitted that to himself, he walked the five minutes or so to New Scotland Yard. He did not go in, just stood across the street for a few minutes. It was blazing with lights even in the middle of the night. It didn’t hurt as much as he expected, saying goodbye. He thought of Lestrade, of course. Should he go in, leave a note? No, that might hurt a bit too much. He’d send him a text later. Explain. 

He walked through the night, until the subtle shift of light indicated dawn. The traffic began to pick up. When he reached Baker street, he opened the outer door quietly, climbed the seventeen steps to the flat, and packed a bag. 

It was too early to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. She’d still be sleeping. He would leave her a note. He called a cab, shouldered his leather duffle, and went quietly down the stairs. He would wait for the cab in the street. He was tired of London. He wasn’t sure whether or not he was tired of life, but he was certainly tired of his life as it was. 

The cab pulled up, and he thought about Jeff Hope. Would things have been simpler if he had taken that damned pill? Perhaps. All in all, he could still say that he was glad he was alive. What to do with his life was, at the moment, an open question. 

“Where to, guv?” 

“Heathrow,” he said. That’s all he knew, for now. 

In the back of the cab, he sent Mycroft a text. 

_Have fled London. Not to worry, no drugs involved. Just need a change of scene. Will keep in touch. You were right, the Conti was sublime._


	2. Chapter 2

He stood in front of the departures board, his eyes shifting and sifting through the possibilities as they came and went. A flight to Dubai left in half an hour. First class on Emirates was appealing, but Dubai wasn’t. Too flashy, too new. Japan Airways had a flight to Narita in ten minutes. That might have been interesting, but it was already boarding. Nairobi, Los Angeles, Frankfurt. No, no, and no.

Then he saw it. BA to Madrid in two hours. Something stirred in his memory. Hadn’t Mycroft mentioned something about Uncle Rudy “holed up” in Madrid? Before they told their parents about Eurus, when Sherlock asked why in hell their uncle had been the one to make the decision to incarcerate her, Mycroft said that Rudy had the contacts, the power, and the ruthlessness to make it happen. He had thought it for the best, and so had Mycroft at the time. But, he said, if Sherlock had questions, why didn’t he ask Uncle Rudy? Their uncle was holed up in Madrid, still running spies all over Europe and the Middle East, but no longer doing field-work himself. Why Madrid? Mycroft shrugged and said something about Rudy’s love of Goya, Vasquez, tapas, and the dresses of Ángel Fernández Ovejero and Juan Rufete.

Madrid it was then. He would have time for coffee. Even breakfast. He was actually hungry. It was good to have a mission of sorts beyond escaping London. Sherlock did, indeed, have several questions for his uncle.

****

Once in Madrid, he decided to get settled before he found and confronted Rudy. He could have asked Mycroft for his address, of course, but he found that he didn’t want to involve Mycroft in this for now. He would do it in his own time and in his own way. It wasn’t that he was putting off finding out whatever there was to find out. Not at all. One day more or less didn't matter, and a good night’s sleep would better equip him to ask his questions. And insist on answers.

He got in the third cab in the rank. Old habits in foreign capitals from his time away (“dead,” John’s voice in his head insisted) persisted.

“¿Dónde puedo llevarlo, señor?”

“Un buen hotel,” he said, “Tranquilo.”

The cabbie turned and smiled. “¿Como?”

How good? Sherlock smiled. He might as well enjoy this impulsive journey.

"Viejo, hermoso y lujoso,” he replied.

The driver grinned, seeing a large tip in his future.

“Excelente, señor. Hotel Orfila. Se le encantará. Toma cava en el patio.”

He did, indeed, like the Orfila. It was a small, five star hotel in the center of the city, but on a quiet street. Following his driver’s advice, he had cava on the patio, just breathing and listening to the murmur of the small fountain almost hidden in the foliage. Later, following the concierge’s advice, he walked a few blocks and had tapas at El Sur. Then he strolled through the Centro, listening to music drifting out of the bars and the lilting Spanish of the people he passed. He suddenly had a sense of well-being, a sense that had evaded him for a long time.

Why had he thought he was bound to London, to John and Rosie, to the flat and the memories, and the sense of shrinking possibilities? He knew why, of course. He was bound by a hope for a relationship with John that he finally admitted was only in his imagination. John did not want him in the way he wanted John. Or, even if he did, the barriers of his anger, his resentments, his sexual self-identification would prevent him from acting on it. Sherlock had hoped, but he was ready to give up that hope.

John would always be his friend, his best friend, but that was all. Sherlock was simply tired of being the person who waited for John Watson to love him. He could choose a different future. He loved John and Rosie, Mrs. Hudson, Molly. He even, to himself, could admit he loved Lestrade, Mycroft, his parents. Wandering through the streets where no-one knew him, however, he entertained the possibility that he could still love them but step out of the strictures of their expectations, their assumptions, the patterns that had grown up around him.

He stopped at an estanquero and bought two Partagas to smoke on the patio later. He strolled, explored, and tried not to think too much. By the time he returned to the hotel it was dark. He returned to the patio and ordered a brandy. He slowly unwrapped one of the cigars. He smiled as he lit it. Tomorrow he would find Rudy.

*****

As it turned out, Uncle Rudy found him. As he was lingering over coffee on his balcony the next morning, there was a knock at the door. Good god, had Mycroft tracked him down already? He sighed, set the cup down, and crossed the room.

“Lamento molestarlo, señor. El mensajero pidió que entreguemos esto de inmediato.” The young man at the door held out a small creamy envelope. Must be Mycroft, if it had to be delivered immediately.

“No hay problema, gracias,” Sherlock said, taking the envelope. Heavy, excellent paper. Expensive. The writing looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

He returned to the balcony, poured himself another cup of the excellent coffee, and used the butter knife from his so-far untouched croissants to slit open the envelop.

_Dear boy! So happy to see that you’re in Madrid. It has been years since we talked! Come to dinner. Tell the cab to bring you to the Reina Victoria. The concierge will bring you up to the penthouse. They have an excellent wine cellar at the Victoria, so we’ll have dinner in. We have so much to catch up on. Rudy_

Well, that hadn’t taken long. Rudy and Mycroft were so alike, apart from the cross-dressing. They both liked to play games. They both enjoyed maintaining the upper hand. Lots to catch up on, indeed. He could spend all day fretting about Rudy and Mycroft and Eurus, or he could go to the Prado.

In keeping with his new-found resolution to agonize less and enjoy his life more, he went to the Prado. He took his time, drifting from room to room. He lunched in the café, unwilling to leave the museum.

In the afternoon, he spent an hour in front of _The Garden of Earthly Delights_ thinking about suffering, nightmare and damnation. Thinking about his own nightmares and the past. Then he spent another hour contemplating El Greco’s _Resurrection of Christ_ and thinking about art and transformation and new life. Something stirred in him, some desire to create beauty instead of analyzing clues. To tease out the mysteries of form and color instead of the marks on corpses.

He sat up straighter and narrowed his eyes at the slight smile on the white face of the resurrected Christ. Where had those thoughts come from? It’s true he had a famous painter in his blood-line. Vernet. But he had never had the slightest desire to draw or paint. The sudden longing to make something beautiful out of nothing but his own hands and soul and some oil paint or ink or chalk seemed to come out of nowhere. He had his music for that that secret part of himself, but suddenly he wanted something more tangible. More material. He looked again at the white Christ soaring above the contorted and astonished figures below him. They were striking. Immediate. Erotic. Oh. That was interesting. He would have to explore that. He had the feeling that he had all the time in the world, now.

Speaking of time, there was just time to go back to his hotel to change for dinner. He looked forward to drinking Uncle Rudy’s no doubt excellent wine and asking him the question that was upper-most in his mind. Why, in the name of all that was holy, had he thought he had the right to incarcerate his own niece and lie about it to her own parents? The answer to that question, thought Sherlock, should make for an interesting evening.


	3. Chapter 3

The concierge took Sherlock up a lovely marble staircase, knocked on the door at the top, and turned him over to Claude. 

Claude identified himself as Rudy’s major domo without the slightest hint of irony. Claude was ramrod straight, grey-haired, and dressed all in black. He took Sherlock down a hall, through a beautiful library with floor to ceiling shelves filled with leather-spined books. He knocked lightly on a set of carved double-doors. 

One of the doors was shortly opened. 

“Darling! What a delight to see you. Come in, come in. I thought we’d have our apéro in my study. So much cosier, don’t you think? Claude, you can bring in dinner at 9:00, there’s a dear. Champagne or madeira?” 

“Champage, by all means,” Sherlock said. 

Rudy smiled. “Delightful! I’ll join you.” 

Claude went to a side-table where a bottle rested in a silver bucket, sweating beads of water that glinted in the low lights of the room. He poured, handed Sherlock and Rudy cut-crystal flutes, and withdrew, closing the door being him. 

Sherlock took a sip. An excellent brut. 

“Beautiful gown,” he said. It was. Slim and floor-length, ecru silk with exquisite gold embroidery down one sleeve and at the nipped-in waist. “Schiapperelli?” 

“You always had an eye for clothes, Sherlock. It is indeed. 1932 and one of my favorites. I thought you’d appreciate it.” 

“You’re looking well,” said Sherlock. 

“I’m looking old,” Rudy smiled gently, “but I manage to keep myself amused. You, dear boy, are looking unusually worn at the edges.” 

“You haven’t seen me since you visited me in rehab when I was eighteen. How would you know whether I’m more worn than usual?” 

“Oh, Sherlock. Just because you haven’t seen _me_ in over twenty years doesn’t mean I haven’t seen _you._ I’ve kept a weather eye on you your whole life. Once a spook, always a spook. I know the past few years haven’t been kind to you. You look tired, dear boy.” 

Sherlock shrugged and sipped the excellent champagne. 

“I am. Tired,” he finally said. 

“And where are my manners,” said Rudy. “Let’s sit and catch up.” He led the way to an exquisite antique card table. Eighteenth century Sheraton, Sherlock was sure. It was laid with a dinner service for two. 

Rudy fitted a mother-of-pearl cigarette holder with a black Sobranie and passed the pack to Sherlock. 

“You’ll find Madrid restful, I hope. I do,” his uncle said. Rudy drew a silver art deco lighter out of a small beaded purse that rested on the table. He passed the lighter to Sherlock, who flicked it and drew smoke and nicotine gratefully into his lungs. 

“Restful? I thought you were still working?” 

“Just a bit. I’ve become a consultant spook. The only one in the world.” Rudy smiled, his artfully made-up eyes crinkling in amusement. “I keep my hand in. Nothing too fatiguing. I also take on some private cases for my own amusement. You inspired me, my dear. My little hobby, my side-line, is art thefts and art forgeries. I might have something that would interest you in that line, but we’ll talk about that later. But how is your dear mother?” 

Sherlock let Rudy lead the conversation. Although they hadn’t been in contact in decades, Sherlock found himself warming to the old man. He was erudite, amusing, acerbic, and had good taste in clothes, food, wine, and antiques. Sherlock let himself relax and enjoy the meal. His questions could come later. Course followed course. Consommé a la Royal, prawns poached in butter and garlic, pulpo a la gallega, salad, manchego with dates. 

Claude came and went, efficient and silent. Finally he left cigars, snifters, and a bottle of Armagnac on the table. 

Rudy lit his cigar. The cigar was somewhat at odds with the beaded toque on his head, but Sherlock was feeling mellow and refrained from pointing this out. He lit his own cigar. 

“Now, dear boy, you have questions, I think.” 

Of course he knew why Sherlock had come to Madrid. 

“Just one, actually. Why did you take it on yourself to incarcerate my sister? That should have been my parents’ decision. You were just her uncle. Why did you think you had the right to change all our lives and lie about it?” 

Rudy swirled the brandy in his glass and sighed. He didn’t look up. 

“Before I answer that question, Sherlock, think carefully. Answers have consequences, they always do. Think about whether it is always better to have the truth. Are you happy that you know about Eurus? Are you happy that you know about Victor? I’m going out on the balcony. Finish your cigar. Finish your brandy. Think. If you really want the answer to your question, come out, look at the stars with me, and ask it again. I will tell you the truth. If you would prefer to leave things as they are, go back to your hotel. Come see me again before you leave Madrid. I may have a case for you. We can go on as if we’ve never had this conversation.” 

He stood, still not looking directly at Sherlock, and took his brandy with him. He crossed the room, opened the French doors onto a balcony, and closed them firmly behind him. 

Sherlock frowned down into his brandy snifter. Well, that was unexpected. But perhaps it shouldn’t be, given his bizarre family. He thought he had gotten to the bottom of the tragedy, the strata that underlay his loss of memory, the lies, the deep well of pain that had made him who he was. Apparently there was more. Could he walk away? Of course he couldn’t. No matter what it was, he was tired of secrets. No matter what it was, he wanted to know the truth. 

He sighed, picked up his brandy, and went out onto the balcony. 

“Of course you want to know,” said Rudy, not turning, leaning on the wrought iron balustrade, looking out over the lights of Madrid. “I would, in your place.” 

Sherlock came up beside him, leaned against the railing, his hand trailing the beautiful snifter over the railing into the void. He took a long drag on the cigar. 

“Dearest boy, I had the right to make the decision to incarcerate your sister because I was her father.” 

The snifter slipped from Sherlock’s hand and crashed onto the sidewalk below. There was cursing. He stepped back from the rail. 

Rudy turned to face him, a crooked smile on his face. 

“Lest you suspect me of incest, let me hasten to tell you that I am not, in fact, your uncle. Your mother and I are second cousins. You’re quite pale, Sherlock. Are you alright?” 

Sherlock gripped the iron railing, his knuckles white. His whole past was a lie. All the way down. When would he ever get to the truth of it? He said the first thing that came into his head. 

“Does Mycroft know?” 

“He hasn’t a clue.” 

“Does my father know?” 

“Yes, from the beginning. He is as much a part of the story as am I. Do you want to sit down?” 

“No, I don’t bloody want to sit down. I am sick, _sick to death_ , of secrets. Just tell me the truth. All of it. As simply as possible.” Sherlock passed a shaking hand over his forehead. It felt clammy. Too much food, too much alcohol. Too much. He wanted desperately to throw up, but he would not leave this balcony until he knew the truth. 

“I’m so sorry,” said Rudy. “I wanted to tell you the truth, years ago, but your mother wouldn’t have it. She wanted you to have a normal family. A normal upbringing.” 

Sherlock barked a laugh. 

“I know. None of us are remotely normal. Even your father…. Well. Here is the short version. I’m your mother’s cousin. My parents died early in a boating accident, so we were raised together on the Vernet’s estate in Burgundy. We were the same age, almost exactly, and considered ourselves brother and sister. We went to Oxford at the same time.” 

“Cut to the chase,” said Sherlock. “For the love of god.” 

“Yes. Well. The 1960’s. Free love. Liberation. Your mother and I realized that we loved each other, wanted each other. Then we met your father. Such a gorgeous boy he was. Quite divine.” 

Sherlock growled. Rudy cleared his throat and took a sip of brandy. 

“We fell in love with him. He was bi. And I was beyond gender fluid even before that became the fashion. It was such a delicious time, the late ‘60’s. Carnaby Street, Dylan, the Stones, the drugs, polyamory. We sobered up, of course, eventually got careers. Quit the drugs. The polyamory stuck, though, for quite a long time. We agreed that you all needed a stable life. Over the years, I became more deeply immersed in MI-6 . I was involved with some very dangerous situations and people indeed. I was mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Your mother thought it was wise that I distance myself from the children. We all agreed. It seemed for the best.” 

Something shifted deep in Sherlock’s gut. 

“Wait. Wait…,” he said. “Just…” 

“Ask the question, dear boy. You did say you wanted the truth, after all.” 

“Who is Mycroft’s father?” 

“Roger. The timing makes that certain. I was out of the country for months during the relevant time period.” 

“And you are Eurus’s father?” 

“Yes. We’re certain. Again, timing.” 

Silence fell on the balcony. Sherlock felt dizzy. Layer upon layer upon layer. 

“Just tell me,” he said. 

“We don’t know. Could be either of us. We all loved you so much. You were the most beautiful, charming child. We all loved each other, and we agreed to let the uncertainty stand. Your mother loved Heisenberg. I know that may not be satisfying, but that is the truth. I tried to stay away. When you were eighteen? It wasn't rehab. You were in hospital, although I doubt you remember much. I came because we all thought you were dying. I thought I would never see you again.” 

Sherlock turned and left the balcony without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning he woke with a vicious headache. His mouth was dry and foul. He groaned and rolled over. His head spun, bile rose in his throat. He barely made it to the bathroom. After retching into the toilet, he slumped back onto the blessedly cool tiles of the bathroom wall. 

Sherlock noticed he was still fully clothed. His shirt and trousers were wrinkled, the trousers dusty at the knees. His stomach lurched again as he realized he didn’t remember much of last night after he left Rudy’s suite. His father’s suite? Oh, god. He leaned over the toilet again. 

What had he done last night? He remembered boiling with anger. He remembered walking down dark streets, sometimes almost running, putting distance between himself and that balcony. His first impulse had been to get on the first plane back to England, to confront his mother and father. Father? He wanted to demand explanations, genetic testing, apologies, truth. They had lied and lied and lied. His second impulse was simply to disappear, first into drugs, then into a life away from all of them. He could hide. He could recreate himself. He had done it before, and he could do it again. 

Heroin called to him. The bliss of heroin was difficult to explain to anyone who hadn’t taken it. It was ease, a dark tide of forgetting, an embrace, effective if illusory. He knew that if he were in London, near his trusted contacts and suppliers, he would have gone down that route. He didn’t know Madrid, though. As angry as he was, he wanted to live. But had he forgotten that last night? Had he taken the risk? He pushed up the sleeves of his dirty white dress shirt and looked at his arms. He sagged with relief. No marks. No drugs. He always injected if he took drugs. His stomach roiled. His head throbbed. He remembered going into several bars after he left Rudy’s. He must have had rather a lot of… He sniffed a stain on his sleeve. Whiskey. Better than drugs by a long shot. 

The thought of confronting his parents, or at least his mother, had lost its appeal. He had been tired of the family drama before he left England, even before this latest shock. The latest lie. Did he really want to stay mired in grief and resentment and blame any longer? No, he did not. 

The idea of disappearing, though…. Not literally. That didn’t seem necessary. The idea of disappearing from London, from the gaze of the tabloids, from Hat-Man? Yes. 

He knew what he didn’t want. He didn’t want drugs, he didn’t want his life in London. He didn’t want to see his parents or his brother or his friends, at least for a time. He didn’t want to keep up the façade any longer. 

What did he want? That was harder. He wanted, he thought, the opportunity to be visible to himself. He had edited himself for so long to please John, to avoid Mycroft, to placate his parents, that he wasn’t even sure what the unedited version of himself might be. He remembered the Prado. He wanted to create, to make something that he thought beautiful. He wanted to smoke without hearing lectures about it. He wanted to eat or not eat as he pleased. He wanted, he realized, not to be careful; not to have the people he loved watching him, waiting for the next sign of drug use or depression. 

What else did he want? Cases? Perhaps, but not in London. Sex? He had no idea. Now that he had given up on the idea of sex with John, did he even care about it anymore? He had time to figure that out. 

What he wanted right now was paracetamol, a pack of cigarettes, a croissant, and strong coffee. He called room service. 

~~~~~ 

He spent the next two weeks wandering the streets of Madrid, letting serendipity guide him. He soon had favorite bars and restaurants. He enjoyed lingering on the rooftop terrace at La Terraza del Casino, but the two Michelin stars came with eye-popping prices, so he had only gone twice. Taberna Bakio and Arzábal were more reasonable, and the food was almost as good. 

He tended to linger on his balcony most mornings, smoking and sipping a cortado or two. He used mornings to think and read and to communicate as tactfully as possible with his nearest and dearest. He had sent them all texts within the first week. Luckily, he had accustomed them all to the fact that he preferred to text, so there were no awkward phone calls to ignore. The script was the same for everyone. He was taking a bit of a break in Madrid. Seeing the sights. He was vague about his future plans. Not to worry. Of course there was a flurry of texts in response. 

_What are you doing in Madrid? Case? Be careful. Rosie misses you._

_Sherlock dear, how exiting! I’ve never been to Spain, but Mrs. Turner said the Costa del Sol is quite lovely._

_Have you looked up Uncle Rudy yet? Any new frocks? Did he give you the good brandy? I will say that in spite of his peculiarities, he has excellent taste. Mother wants to know what you are doing in Spain. She seems worried._

_Had a body you would have liked. Osteogenesis imperfecta. Never seen one of those. Why are you in Madrid of all places? I’m worried about you. Are you sure you’re ok?_

He responded to each in turn. 

_Not a case. Just needed to get away. My Uncle Rudy lives in Madrid, and I wanted to talk to him about Eurus. Satisfied my curiosity on some points. I’ll explain when I see you. I miss Rosie, too. Give her a kiss for me. SH_

_I haven’t made it to the Costa del Sol, but never say never. You would like Madrid. I’ll bring you back something. Tiles or Amontillado? SH_

_Interesting dinner with Uncle Rudy. He had on an exquisite Schiaparelli, and he does have good taste in spirits. Tell Mother I am playing tourist in Spain and going to museums. SH_

_I don’t suppose you can save the osteogenesis for me. Pity. Did you take pictures? If so, attach. I’m fine, Molly. Don’t worry. I thought of you when I was in the Prado. You look very 17th century sometimes. Sherlock._

He hoped that he had allayed their concerns. Except for his mother. He loved her. He did. But she deserved to be worried. He never underestimated her intelligence, and she would know he had gone to see Rudy and what he had asked. She had probably also calculated that Rudy felt that he owed him the truth at long last. 

He had been truthful about the museums. Most afternoons, after a late and leisurely lunch, he spent in one museum or another. He revisited the Prado many times. He also discovered some hidden gems. At the Museo del Romanticismo, the rooms reminded him of the National Gallery, with elaborately framed paintings on vividly painted walls. He explored the Museo Lazaro Galdiano, the archeological museum, and the National Library. He often read in the library until it closed, then found an outside table for wine and tapas late in the evening. He particularly liked El Viajero for its glacially slow service. It suited him to smoke and sip his wine while an hour could pass between the puntillitas and the cojonuda. 

Was he lonely? Undoubtedly, but he also liked the freedom of it. He gradually felt himself relaxing into the peace of being in this no-man’s-land in his life. He knew the restlessness would grow on him soon, and he would have to decide what to do next. But for now, he sipped his tinto, crunched a tiny squid between his teeth, and was surprisingly content. 

~~~~~ 

Three weeks in, the restlessness finally hit. He needed to move, needed a next step. Not to London. He had ignored Rudy all this time, and Rudy had tactfully left well enough alone. Rudy had mentioned a case. Perhaps that would be something to occupy his time. Not to be out-done, he bought elegant stationary and a Mont Blanc pen during his afternoon perambulations. The next morning, as he sipped his cortado, he wrote a note to be delivered. 

_My dear soi-disant Papa (or shall I call you Uncle Rudy), I apologize for the abruptness of my departure at our last meeting. I should have thanked you for an interesting evening. Would you care to join me for dinner at Ramon Freixa? I’ve reserved a table in the garden for nine this evening. Sherlock_

When he returned from the Prado in the late afternoon, another creamy envelop awaited him. 

_It would be my pleasure, dear boy. You have excellent taste – the food there is wondrous. The matter I referred to in Lisbon is becoming pressing. I will have to go there myself if I can’t persuade you to take it on. So fatiguing for one of my advanced years. Roger will always be your father, my dear. He raised you. Yours, Rudy._


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock took the case. Thus he found himself two weeks into his investigations in Lisbon, hip-deep in a murder, a disappearance, and the defacement of a Gothic tomb in the old Carmelite Convent, now a UNESCO historic site and museum. He was certain the three events were related, but he had not yet found the link. 

He was already deeply involved with some of Rudy’s Portuguese friends. He was currently being hounded by the ancient Donna Sofia Da Costa. Both she and Rudy insisted that he stay in one of the many apartments in her large and luxurious villa in the Alfama. It was she who had inveigled Rudy into providing his services to investigate the mysteries that now occupied him. Her current subject was not the disappearance of her house-guest, Professora Margaret Thorn, however. Now she had matchmaking on her mind. 

“Donna Inez has a friend.” Donna Sofia's best friends were Donna Inez and Donna Fortuna. He thought of them, privately, as the witches of Endor. 

He repressed a smile and kept his eyes fixed on his work. He was going over the proofs of an unpublished article by Professor Thorn for the Journal of Art History on the mosaics on the floor of the convent to see if it suggested a connection between her disappearance and the murder of the docent at the museum. 

He didn’t want to be disrespectful to an elder, however. He did think longingly of Mrs. Hudson for a moment. At least she hadn’t tried to set him up. One thing he loved about Portugal, however, was the culture’s reverence for older people. No matter how irritating. Sherlock straightened up and put down his pen. 

“Donna Inez has many friends,” he countered. “You, Donna Fortuna, Father Antonio….” 

Donna Sofia narrowed her eyes. She couldn’t disagree with his literal statement or his tone. Sherlock, however, knew that she knew that he was being a smartass since he had ignored the continuity and context of their last conversation in which he respectfully requested that the unholy trinity of Donna Inez, Donna Fortuna, and Donna Sofia stay the hell out of his (admittedly nonexistent) love life. Sherlock lifted his chin, defiant. 

The old lady braced herself on her ebony cane, settling in for the long haul. Sherlock reluctantly capped his pen. She nodded. Respect. 

“He is from an old family. An attorney, Senor Holmes! A widower. A tragic story. An accident, they say.” 

Sherlock was momentarily distracted by competing temptations. He tackled the first problem. 

“Donna Sofia, I have asked you many times to call me Sherlock.” 

She sniffed. Sherlock knew that it was a fine line for her. She was ninety (at least), and he was forty (just), so ordinarily she would call him by his first name. But the ladies seemed to hold Rudy in awe, and that awe seems to have spread to him. 

“What happened to his wife? And if he had a wife, why are you trying to fix me up with him? How old is he, anyway?” 

She smiled, triumphant. The last fix-up by the Witches of Endor had been with a banker who was sixty if he was a day. A handsome and cultured sixty, but still. The smile, Sherlock thought, must mean they think they’ve done better this time. 

“No more than forty. And everyone knows that he has loved both men and women. His family is old. Wealthy and influential. Don Mathias is cultured. _Refinado. Extremamente boa aparência._ So they say. I have not seen him personally.” 

“Just for the record, how the hell do you know that _I_ haven’t loved both men and women? And just because he's easy on the eye doesn't mean I'd be interested.” 

Donna Sofia rapped her cane on the tile floor. She did not approve of either strong language or resistance to her plans. 

“Sorry. How does Donna Inez know him?” 

“She doesn’t,” admitted Sofia. “But her friend, Donna Claudia, has a great-niece. She worked with poor Elizabeta before the accident. She says that now that Elizabeta is gone, and left a son to carry on the name, his family will look more kindly on his preferences.” 

Sherlock asked himself whether he wanted to date a bisexual Portuguese lawyer. 

“I am here to work, Donna Sofia. You asked Rudy to get involved, and here I am. I am not here to socialize. Perhaps after the case.” 

_“Quando o bem te chegar, mete-o em casa,”_ she muttered. 

Portuguese was not, yet, one of Sherlock’s languages. And she knew it. 

“Opportunity may not knock at your door later, Senor… Sherlock. He is looking about him now. Strike while the iron it is hot. A bird in the hand is better than birds later. You are young. You should not be alone.” 

He thought sadly of John, Molly, Lestrade. Yes, he was lonely. He sighed. The witches meant well. 

“Maybe I’ll call him for a drink, sometime,” he said. 

“Donna Inez has already talked with Donna Claudia. She talked with Donna Analia, and it is arranged.” 

“Who the hell is Donna Analia?” 

The cane rapped on the tile again. 

“Sorry,” said Sherlock. “Sorry. Who is Donna Analia and what is arranged?” 

“Donna Analia Ferreira is the mother of Don Mathias. She approves. You are meeting him for drinks at A Paródia at nine o’clock.” 

“But…,” 

The cane rapped twice, quick, light, insistent. 

“A glass of wine. You admire the antiques. They have a collection of Bordaro Pinheiro’s paintings. Very amusing.” The old lady shrugged. What can it hurt, her shoulders asked. 

Sherlock weighed the pros and cons. What could it hurt? He could use a walk anyway, to clear his mind. So far he had made little progress on the professor’s disappearance, and the local police were unwilling to share details about the murder at the convent. 

“If I meet this man and nothing comes of it, will you and your friends cease your attempts to interfere in my life?” 

“If you do not like him, Father Antonio says that the new organist at Santa Maria de Belem is a beautiful woman and is unmarried.” 

“So you’re trying women, now?” 

“And why not? If you don’t like Don Mathias, perhaps a woman. A musician! Rosa pressed your grey suit. Try to make a good impression tonight,” Donna Sofia said sternly. She turned and left, her cane tapping as she went. 

Sherlock sighed. He supposed he had better shave again. She would surely check him over before he left. God, he missed Mrs. Hudson.


	6. Chapter 6

1\. In my work, I have trained myself to build up a narrative out of fragments. A footprint, the ash of a Russian cigarette, the sliver of a new moon on a particular evening in January, the absence of blood spray around a particular body (a person, a woman in that case, a beautiful woman with auburn hair who died too young). Delete “beautiful,” delete hair color. Irrelevant. Understand the connections, build the narrative. Arrest. Conviction. The beautiful, auburn-haired woman just as dead. Delete. Delete. My point is that my work, my method, requires the building of a narrative, a story. 

2\. In my life, such as it is, my narratives failed me. Some were lies told to me. Some were lies I told to myself. My childhood. Redbeard. Delete. Delete. John. Delete. I realize now that I left London because I was drowning in stories. The great detective. The disgraced magician. The druggie, the killer, the friend, the damaged child, the mind without a heart. I am tired of playing my part. I am weary of narratives. For now, here at least, I give myself permission to deal in fragments. 

3\. “Here” is a journal I found in a stall at the flea market behind the monastery of St. Vicente. Beautiful black leather, soft and flexible, with a spreading tree tooled on the front. Thick blank paper the color of old ivory. The woman who sold it to me had auburn hair. Delete. No connections, please. No story. 

4\. In my mind palace there is an area labelled “Cambridge. Useless bits.” Not sure why I didn’t delete them, but this surfaced from a philosophy class. “Gracefulness is life lived correctly, is sensuality contemplating and shaping itself.” Schlegel. _Critical Fragments._ I can even see the number of the fragment. 29. 

5\. I visited the Carmelite Convent. Golden stones, golden light. Fragments still beautiful, although the story that created them is now just a whisper among the stones. Where is Professor Thorn? Dead? Kidnapped? Escaped? If so, from what? 

6\. When I was in Madrid, I often stopped in the Prado to look at El Greco’s painting of a nobleman with his hand resting on his chest. Is he protecting his heart or merely showing off the costly lace at his cuff? His eyes are a mix of grey and brown, dark and light. Autumn storm eyes. I was interested to see when I met Mathias for drinks last week that his are exactly the same. Delete. No connections, please. No story. 

7\. Schlegel again. _Athenaeum Fragments._ I can’t see the number of this one, but the words are quite clear even though the fragment lies on the floor of a neglected room in my mind palace. “Suicide is usually only an accident, rarely an action. In the former case, suicide is always wrong: it’s like a child trying to free itself.” I flung myself against the door of death many times, in many ways. I woke last night, sobbing in the dark for that child who wanted so badly to be free. Donna Sofia came into my room. Uninvited. She sat on my bed in the darkness without saying a word. She gathered me up in her tiny, ancient arms. 

8\. “ _O meu menino é d'oiro, d'oiro fagueiro, heu-de levá-la...._ ” A thread of song above my head. Her bony fingers card softly through my hair. Her voice cracks and quavers. It sounds like an old lullaby. “My child is made of gold, soft gold. I’ll have to take him in my sailing ship. I’ll have to take him in my sailing ship.” 

~~~~~ 

The Portuguese lullaby is called “Golden Child.” https://saltofportugal.com/2012/05/28/a-portuguese-lullaby/


	7. Chapter 7

“Oh, hi John,” Molly said, putting down the bone saw. “Everything ok?” 

John shuffled into the morgue, “Hi, Molly. Yeah, everything’s fine. Just had lunch with Mike, so I thought I’d look in. See how you were. It’s been a while.” 

It had indeed been a while. She hadn’t seen John in weeks. She cast her mind back. She had met Sherlock and John and Rosie in Regent’s park. They had tea and cake and took Rosie to see the swans. That was weeks before her last, strange dinner with Sherlock. She remembered Rosie’s delight at the swans and the fact that Sherlock and John didn’t talk to each other the whole time, really. They talked to her. They talked to Rosie. They sipped tea and never met each other’s eyes. 

She sighed and drew the sheet back up over Mrs. Abernathy. She took off her goggles. Stripped off her gloves. 

“Tea?” 

“You’re busy. Sorry. I just thought… I’ll let you get back to it, then.” He didn’t move from his position, still hovering by the door. 

“Don’t be an ass,” said Molly. Or not more of an ass than you can help, she thought. Men. “You’re here. You want to catch up.” Ask about Sherlock, she translated. Pump me to see what I know. I know you, John Watson. “I’m happy to see you. I’ll make tea.” 

As she plopped PJ Tips bags into the cleanest mugs she could find and poured the water, he came closer. He braced his hands on the rim of Mrs. Abernathy’s table. 

“Rosie misses you,” he said. 

“And I miss her,” she said. “But the last two times I called, you said things were busy.” She swirled the tea bags to hurry things up. Was she angry with John? Well, yes, she was. He’d been through hell. No question. He was an overwhelmed single father. But he had hurt Sherlock. He had hurt him, physically and emotionally. She liked John. Really, she did. But she loved Sherlock Holmes, and she always would. There was never any doubt where her loyalties lay. 

“Sorry. I’m just having trouble keeping my head above water. How can one little girl tire me out more than Afghanistan? More than…” He trailed off. 

She jerked out the tea bags. Dumped a packet of sugar in each mug. She walked over and set the mug down by his right hand. None too gently. A bit of tea sloshed over the rim onto Mrs. Abernathy’s sheet. Mrs. A was past caring, thought Molly. But Molly wasn’t. She refused to make it easier. She sipped her own tea in silence. 

“More than Sherlock,” he said quietly, refusing to meet her eyes. 

She sipped. He cleared his throat. 

“Who’s this, then?” John gestured with his cup at the sheet-covered form. 

“Vestavia Burnes Abernathy. Sixty-three years old. Native Londoner. Widowed. Two sons.” Suddenly she took pity on the man standing looking down at the sheet. He was her friend, in spite of everything. She drew the sheet up a bit at the side to reveal one of the woman’s hands. 

John cocked his head. Set down his tea. 

“May I?” 

“Be my guest,” she said. He lifted Mrs. Abernathy’s hand. “Clubbing,” he said, looking closely at the bulging ends of the fingers, the distinctive sharp angle between the nail bed and the joint. 

“Yep,” Molly said. 

“Bronchiectasis? Lung abscess?” 

“Won’t know for sure until I get in,” she said, tilting her head toward the bone saw she had put down when he first came into the morgue. “But look at the color of the nailbeds.” She could hear Sherlock as surely as if he were standing there. You see, but you do not observe. She missed him. 

“Blueish. They’re blue. Wait, you don’t think… Not Eisenmenger syndrome, surely? That’s rare, and for someone to live until their sixties….” He sounded excited. He sounded almost like the old John. 

“And you said she had sons. Eisenmenger patients aren’t supposed to get pregnant. Way too risky.” 

“I’m betting Mrs. Abernathy is a _really_ rare one. It’s possible she had it and didn’t even know. If it is Eisenmenger, she was one in a million. She lived. She had children.” 

Molly hesitated. But it was time. Put the poor man out of his misery. If she was to get on with the autopsy, she had to answer John’s unspoken question and move things along. 

“Anyhow, if I’m right, I’ll send the autopsy report to Sherlock. He asked me to send him the most interesting ones since he can’t be here himself.” 

And there it was. Out on the table. Your move, John Watson. 

“So, you, um… keep in touch?” 

“Sure,” she said, “don’t you?” 

He shrugged. “Oh, you know, the odd text here and there. He said he took a case in Lisbon. But that was awhile back. He asked about Rosie.” Silence fell. Molly fiddled with the bone saw. 

John took a deep breath. Let it out. “Why did he leave London, Molly? I asked him when he was coming back. He said not for a while. The case, he said. But that’s not it, is it?” 

Molly really, really didn’t want to have this conversation. For one thing, it wasn’t her story to tell. But she had to say something. 

“John, I just think…,” she started. Stopped. Started over. “I think he was having trouble finding himself again, after…. after Mary.” John flinched. There was a silence. After the beating. They had never spoken of it. They never would. 

“After Eurus,” Molly continued. “He was sad. He needed to get away from all of us for a while.” 

“Should I go over there? Bring him home? Molly, I don’t know….” 

She thought her heart might break. For both of them. Maybe they would find a new equilibrium, a renewal of their friendship. But for now, Sherlock needed to make his own way. 

“John, I think we need to respect his decision. He’s not a child.” John shook his head. Someone had to say it. Molly put down the bone saw, came around to stand beside John, and took his right hand in both of hers. 

“You know Sherlock is in love with you,” Molly said evenly. 

“No. He doesn’t…,” John whispered. His voice was barely a thread of sound. He did not meet her eyes. 

“Yes, he does,” Molly said. “He has for a long time.” 

“I’m not…,” 

“I know. So does Sherlock. I think he hoped for a long time, but one of the reasons he left was he realized, finally, that nothing would ever come of it. He just needs time to himself. You’ll always be his best friend. But, John, he needs more than that.” 

John took a long, shuddering breath. “I’ve hurt him so much, Molly, and I’m so sorry.” 

“He knows. But he doesn’t need you there right now. He needs to be himself without all of us hovering, keeping tabs on him and judging. Especially you, John. Especially you. But you’ll always be the most important person on earth to him. Never forget that.” 

He lifted one of her hands and kissed it. They stood for a long time, and the silence was suddenly comfortable between them. 

“So what is he actually doing over there?” John asked, finally. 

Molly giggled. 

“Well, as far as I can tell, he’s living with some crazy old lady, investigating the symbols on a Gothic tomb, going to museums. He's dating. A lawyer.” She hesitated before adding those last details, but John had been a dog in the manger long enough. He needed to wrap his head around the fact that Sherlock was changing his life. 

“Dating? Sherlock?” John tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A lawyer, God help us. Male or female?” 

“Don’t be daft. You may not be gay, but Sherlock certainly is. He also said that the old lady and her friends are teaching him cooking and Portuguese. The last texts I got from him were about making _feijoada transmontana_. Takes all day, apparently, and it sounded like they were drinking all the time they were making it. He said something about witches and cauldrons, but the texts got weirder the more they drank. He had a hangover the next day.” 

“He sounds… happy. I’m glad.” He didn’t look glad, thought Molly, but she knew he loved Sherlock. He would be glad for him. Eventually. 

“Me, too,” she said. She snapped on her gloves and picked up the bone saw. “Want to stay and see if I was right about Mrs. A? You can take pictures and text Sherlock as we go along. He’d love it.” 

“Yeah. I’d love it, too. Molly….” 

“John?” 

“Just… thanks. For being such a good friend. To both of us.” 

“You’re welcome,” she said. There was that sorted. Or at least it was a start. She handed him a pair of goggles and some blue rubber gloves, took the sheet off Mrs. Abernathy, and they got on with it.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock stared at his reflection in the old-fashioned mirror in his bedroom. Nineteenth century, probably. Free-standing, floor-length, oval mahogany set in a brass stand. The reflection showed tight black jeans. Black Chelsea boots. Black t-shirt. He jerked the t-shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor. It joined a white button-down at his feet. The black t-shirt either said “fuck me now” or “I don’t want you to think I’m forty.” Perhaps both. The white button-down with the black jeans said “I am confused about my identity as a gay man.” 

“Hell,” he said. His artfully disheveled hair was now merely disheveled. This was difficult. He hadn’t dated since Cambridge, and even then his experience had been limited. Sebastian. Disaster from the get-go. Anna-Lise. Awkward, but at least it developed into a mild friendship. Then Victor. Sex, passion, love, heartbreak. Debacles all. That had been the scope of his “dating.” His few sexual experiences after that were divorced from romance or any hope of it. Drugs fueled most of them. 

Now, however, he and Mathias Ferreira seemed to be dating. He blamed the relentless determination of the three witches of Endor and his own loneliness in equal parts. 

~~~~~  


He had met Mathias for drinks just two weeks ago. Dressed in his grey suit, nerves prickling, he went straight to the dimly lit bar at _a Paródia_ and ordered a G &T. He drank half of it in one rather desparate gulp. Why the hell was he here? 

“Sherlock?” A soft voice, register a bit higher than his own, slightly accented. He turned and looked down into eyes that were a shade of greyed-brown like oak leaves at the end of November or the well-worn patina of his Strad. Square jaw, cleft chin, elegantly narrow nose. Short, brown hair. It would curl if it were longer. Neatly trimmed mustache and goatee. Not at all, Sherlock thought, like that horrible mustache John had when he… 

“You are Mr. Holmes?” Smile. Full lips. He realized he needed to stop cataloging. He needed to speak. 

“Yes. Mr. Ferreira.” He put down his drink and held out his hand. “Please call me Sherlock.” 

“And you must call me Mathias.” The man glanced at the bartender and slightly tilted his head. The woman slipped from behind the bar to lead them to a small table in an alcove. A regular, then. A single candle illuminated the table, casting shadows on the curving walls of the alcove. More romantic, thought Sherlock. Angelo. John. The past. He straightened and took another sip of his drink. The present. 

He allowed his eyes to sweep over Mathias again, assessing. The dark blue suit was bespoke and fit the broad shoulders impeccably. Ayres Goncalo, Sherlock was almost sure. He visited the shop on Rua Rodrigues Sampaio only last week to be fitted for an obscenely expensive jacket. 

The pretty bartender brought over Mathias’s whiskey, along with another G&T for Sherlock. As Mathias lifted his glass, Sherlock noted a discrete signet ring on his right hand. Old, gold. Family crest? Most likely. No wedding ring. He also noted the strength of bicep moving beneath the finely tailored wool. The graceful movements of the hands. 

They talked for over two hours. Mathias had been educated partly in England. Economics at St. Andrews. Law degree from London School of Economics. The degrees related somehow to family business interests. They touched only lightly on their professions at that first meeting. They talked instead of Edinburgh, London, Lisbon. They teased out shared tastes in music and art, fencing and boxing. The last two explained the broad shoulders, the suggestion of strong arms beneath the elegant suit jacket. 

Mathias finally took a last sip of his second whiskey and set the glass down on the table. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and took out a silver card case. He extracted a card, put it on the table, and slid it toward Sherlock. 

“I am sure you know some of my history. And my circumstances. My mother and her friends are relentless gossips, alas. I have enjoyed our conversation, Sherlock. I would like to see you again. Don’t answer now, but consider it. Call or send a note to that address if you wish. Perhaps you would enjoy fencing at my club?” Sherlock’s hand went out to take the card. 

Mathias stood and held out his hand. Sherlock took it. Strong, square, tanned. Expensive manicure. Scarred knuckles. So not just boxing. Bare-knuckle boxing. Something stirred deep in his groin. Not only did he like this man, he was attracted to him. 

Mathias let go of his hand. “The bill is taken care of. My family has an account.” Of course they did, thought Sherlock, watching him thread his way through the crowd at the bar and disappear. 

He waited two days, then sent a note inviting Mathias to a baroque concert at the cathedral. As they sat listening to Purcell and Manuel Correia, his companion shifted slightly on the stone bench. Their thighs touched. Sherlock didn’t move his leg. He let his hand drift until his little finger touched the side of Mathias’s hand. Warmth flooded him. After the music ended they drifted in companionable silence through the dark streets. Finally, Mathias led him into Esperanca da Se for pizza and wine. 

They talked about music, and Mathias was intrigued that Sherlock played the violin. Maritime law, one of Mathias’s areas of practice, led to Sherlock’s work on the Gloria Scott case. Mathias talked of his own sailboat, a 54 foot Hylas. He and his son, Paulo, had sailed for days along the Costa Vicentina last summer. 

“He turned eight in July. He was finally old enough to help me with the sails, so it could be just the two of us.” 

Because your wife was dead by then, thought Sherlock. Elizabeta. An accident, supposedly. He always wondered, of course, about accidents. His work made him eternally suspicious. The old Sherlock would have probed. Of course he would have. Now he just sipped his wine. No doubt it was a painful subject. Maybe Mathias would bring it up later. 

Their next date had been Sunday. An afternoon at a sports club outside the city, in Belas. Mathias sent a car for him and met him in the elegant white changing room. 

“I think these will do,” he said, holding out a wicker basket full of fencing togs, with a pristine padded jacket on top, blindingly white. “Foil, épéé, or saber?” Mathias grinned a challenge. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Fencers usually specialized in one of the three. This meant that he was not very good, or that he was very good indeed. Sherlock assessed his opponent. Two inches shorter, but broader shouldered, with more powerful arms. If he was any good at all, he would excel with the sabre. Sherlock was lighter on his feet, with a longer reach. He always won at foils, to Mycroft’s everlasting consternation. 

“Why not épéé?” 

“Excellent,” Mathias said. He nodded toward a door at the back of the changing room. “I’ll meet you out there.” 

“Out there” turned out to be a large, airy room with ten piste, the regulation lanes for matches. It was a high-tech operation, with the reels and wires necessary for electronic scoring. 

Mathias was waiting, standing in the hash-marked section of an open piste, holding the weapons. 

“Here,” he said, handing the swords to Sherlock, “let me.” He stepped in close, hands folding back the seam at the side of Sherlock’s jacket to connect the two body cords. Sherlock could feel the warmth of his skin, smell his aftershave. Penhaligon’s. 

Mathias stepped back, then gracefully bent and retrieved two masks. 

“Ready?” 

Sherlock nodded, stepped back, and brought the épéé up in a quick salute. 

The bouts flew by. Sherlock’s world shrank to thrusts, parries. Flicks. Attack and defense. Mathias was very good. Every three minute period required breath, concentration, strategy. The first nine-minute bout went to Sherlock. He was a hair quicker recovering from attacks. The second and third went to Matthias, whose more powerful straight thrusts broke through Sherlock’s attempts to parry. They were both sweating behind their masks, eyes bright. 

Mathias started to tire during their fourth bout. Too much time behind a desk, Sherlock thought. Luckily, his smoking hadn’t seemed to affect his breathing too badly. As he became more familiar with Mathias’s style, Sherlock’s disengages became lightning fast, and he pressed more compound attacks. 

“Cabrão!” Mathias was laughing and gasping at the same time, hands on his knees, head down. Sherlock thought that meant “bastard.” He would have to ask the ladies. Or not. 

Sherlock took off his mask. “Enough?” 

“By no means. It’s two to two. The honor of Portugal is at stake. One more.” 

“For England, then,” Sherlock said, putting on his mask. 

It was close, but Sherlock finally prevailed. He was, perhaps, more used to fighting for his life, not just for honor. 

“So,” said Mathias as they walked back to the showers. “For your prize, I will cook dinner for you at my place. Wednesday at 9:00. I will send a car.” 

~~~~~  


So now it was Wednesday at 8:30, and he still wasn’t dressed. They were already past their third date, and Matthias had barely touched him. Wasn't there some convention about sex on the third date? 

Thank God the showers at the sports club had not been communal. He had stood, letting the hot water wash over him. Thinking of Mathias showering in the next stall. Thinking of the scars all over his body. He hadn't had sex since the scars. Thinking of the pros and cons of sex. Of a relationship. And now it was Wednesday. Suddenly he heard the tap of a cane. He didn’t have time to cover the scars on his torso. 

He lifted his chin and looked at Donna Sofia’s eyes in the mirror. No pity, thank God. He supposed she had seen a lot in her long life. 

“You will be late, _garoto tolo_.” Foolish boy. He didn’t bother to deny that she knew where he was going. Her eyes fell to the discarded shirts at his feet. She tapped her way over to his wardrobe and plucked out a shirt. The sea-green linen he had bought in Madrid. 

“For your beautiful eyes. At least if I were younger, much younger, that is the shirt I would wish to see.” He took the shirt. She pushed his hair back from his forehead with one claw-like hand, then patted him on his cheek. 

“ _Deixe-se ser feliz, criança._ ” His Portugese was improving. Let yourself be happy, child. 

“I’ll try,” he said, and kissed her on one withered, rouged cheek. “I’ll try my best.”


	9. Chapter 9

“You live in a family compound.” 

Mathias turned away from the gas range where he was stirring something in a large copper saucepan. He smiled and shrugged. 

“My family is very old. And very traditional.” He thwacked a wooden spoon on the edge of the pan and put it down. He came out from behind the kitchen island and held out his hand to Sherlock. 

" _Obrigado, Aldo. Isso é tudo pela noite,"_ he said to the young driver who had brought Sherlock up. The man nodded and left. 

“I hope you’re hungry. I’ve made my grandmother’s clams in wine and garlic to start. Then arroz de pato.” 

They talked easily as they ate the clams with bread to dunk in the sauce. Then Mathias gave him a tour of the old house. Room after room filled with antiques and art, dark silk drapes, and hidden nooks. A beautiful garden filled with the sound of insects and a fountain, touched with starlight. 

“Come, the duck should be ready.” It was delicious and complex. Duck with sausages, rice, and vegetables. A beautiful pinot noir. After they finished eating, Mathias retrieved a silver box and put it on the table. He opened the top and retrieved a cigarette, then pushed the box toward Sherlock. They smoked as they finished the pinot. 

“You’re an excellent cook,” said Sherlock. “Thank you.” 

Mathias smiled. “My son would disagree. He prefers hamburgers and pizza. Next time I’ll make pizza for the three of us and introduce you.” 

So he was to be introduced to family. His heart did something complicated in his chest. Was he ready for this? 

“But tonight he is with his grandmother across the way. We have the house to ourselves.” 

Ah. So tonight was to be the night. Was he ready for this. Did he even want this? Would Mathias kiss him? 

“I am sure it is obvious that I’m attracted to you, Sherlock. And I think you’re attracted to me as well?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply. 

“Before we take this further, I wanted to talk to you. I don’t have casual relationships. I would prefer that we talk about our expectations before we take the next step. If there is to be a next step. And there are things I need to tell you if we are to take that step.” 

Sherlock took a deep breath. He looked at Mathias across the table. Candlelight did wonderful things for the planes of his face. What did he want? Perhaps the better question was, what could he offer this man? He took a long drag on his cigarette. 

“I have things I need to tell you as well. First, I am interested in you. Attracted to you. I am interested in a relationship with you.” 

Mathias started to speak. Sherlock held up a hand. “But I am only here for a case. I don’t know how long I may be here. Where I will go next. So perhaps I’m not what you’re looking for.” 

Mathias smiled. “I am in England often. And you seem free to come and go. I don’t think that would be a problem for us. What else?” 

There was a long silence. “I’m in love with someone else?” That was the heart of it, of course. Why did he phrase it as a question? Of course he was in love with John. But John was not in love with him. Part of the reason for this whole escapade was to find a way forward, a way to be happy. Or at least happier. 

“John, yes?” 

Sherlock nodded. 

“We love many people in our lives. If we are fortunate,” Mathias said. “You are not with him now?” 

“No. I was never with him. Not that way. And I never expect to be with him.” So painful, still. To say that. 

“So you are free to be with me? If you wish it?” 

“Yes,” Sherlock said. 

“ _Boa. Nós progredimos._ Geography is not a problem. Other relationships... We are both ready for a new relationship. Yes?” 

“Yes,” said Sherlock. He hoped that was true. 

“I have a son. He will always be my first concern. Would that be a problem for you?” 

“No,” said Sherlock, sincerely. “That is as it should be. But....” He hesitated. He thought of snipers. He thought of John at the bottom of that well. He thought of poor Mrs. Hudson, interrogated by idiots. Was it fair to bring anyone else near him at all? 

“My work is dangerous. Mathias, perhaps... Perhaps we shouldn’t be involved. Your son. I didn’t think....” 

Sherlock suddenly stood up, his chair scraping over the tiles. He held out his hand. 

“I should go. I didn’t think of that. I was selfish to think....” 

Mathias stood and closed the distance between them. He ignored Sherlock’s outstretched hand, instead grasping both his forearms in a strong grip. Sherlock could smell him. Faint, clean sweat. Aftershave. Penheligon’s. His hair smelled faintly of a shampoo that had a hint of orange and spice. Wine. Cooking smells from the duck. Rich, heady. Male. He felt blood pool in his groin. 

“That was the other thing I wanted to tell you,” Matthias said, his voice low. “My wife, Elizabeta. You heard how she died?” 

“An accident? Donna Sofia said an accident.” 

Mathias pulled Sherlock closer. He laughed. A small, bitter thing. 

“So they said.” He was so close that Sherlock could feel his breathe. Warm. “But it was not. She was murdered. I am sure of it. And I may be next. Or my son. The world is a dangerous place.” 

One of his hands came up to cup Sherlock’s cheek. A thumb caressed one of his cheekbones. 

“Murdered?” Sherlock’s voice was the barest thread of sound. 

“Yes. _Mas isso é para mais tarde_. Later. But tonight, stay with me. I am not afraid of your world. And I want you in mine. Will you stay?” 

Sherlock answered him with a kiss. His mouth was warm and welcoming. Wine and cigarettes. Mathias moved the hand from Sherlock’s cheek to the back of his neck, drew his head forward, and opened his lips to Sherlock’s exploration. Mathias’s other hand circled his waist, drawing him in closer. 

Sherlock felt his rapidly growing erection meet equal hardness. They fit together easily. Mathias groaned into his mouth. He pulled out of the kiss after long moment, panting, and rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Stay,” he said into Sherlock’s collarbone. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I’ll stay.”


End file.
